Irène Fayolle and Gabriel Prudent left the tomb of Martine Robin, married name Prudent. Before leaving, Gabriel Prudent stroked her name engraved on the stone. He said to Irène: “It does feel strange to see your own name written on a tomb.”
They walked along the avenues of the Saint-Pierre cemetery, stopping from time to time in front of other tombs, in front of strangers. To look at photographs or dates. Irène said:
“Personally, I’d want to be cremated.”
In the car park, outside the cemetery, Gabriel said:
“What would you like to do?”
“What can you do, really, after that?”
“Make love. I’d like to take off all your beige and make you see all the colors of the rainbow, Irène Fayolle.”
She didn’t respond. They got into the van and drove as best they could, with all that love, alcohol, and sorrow in their blood. Irène drove and dropped Gabriel outside Aix’s railway station.
“You don’t want to make love?”
“A hotel room, like two thieves in the night . . . we deserve better than that, don’t we? And anyhow, who would we be stealing from, apart from ourselves?”
“Would you like to marry me?”
“I’m already married.”
“So, I’ve come too late, then.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you use your husband’s name?”
“Because he’s called Seul. Paul Seul. If I used his name, I’d be called Irène Seul. It would be a spelling mistake.”
They hugged each other. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t say goodbye. He got out of the van, his widower’s suit all creased. She looked at his hands one last time. She told herself that it was the last time. He waved to her before turning and walking off down the platform.
She took the road back to Marseilles. Access to the motorway wasn’t that far from the station. The traffic was moving well. In just under an hour, she would park in front of the house where Paul was waiting for her. And the years would go by.
Irène would see Gabriel on the television, he would be talking about a criminal case, someone he would defend, and of whose innocence he would be certain. He would say, “This whole case is built around an injustice that I will dismantle, piece by piece.” He would say, “I will prove it!” He would appear agitated, the other man’s innocence would gnaw away at him, it would show. She would think he looked tired, his eyes shadowed, that he’d aged, perhaps.
On the radio, Irène would hear a song by Nicole Croisille, “He was cheery as an Italian when he knows he’ll have love and wine.” And then she would have to sit down. Those words would knock her off her feet, would suddenly take her back to the transport café on February 5th, 1984. She would recall snatches of conversation between the fries, the gross curtains, the beer, the funeral, the white roses, the omelettes, and the calvados.
“What do you love most of all?”
“The snow.”
“The snow?”
“Yes, it’s beautiful. It’s silent. When it’s snowed, the world stops. It’s like a giant shroud of white powder is covering it . . . I find that extraordinary. It’s like magic, you know? And you? What do you love most of all?”
“You. Well, I think I love you most of all. It’s strange to meet the woman of one’s life on the day of the funeral of one’s wife. Perhaps she died so I could meet you . . . ”
“That’s a dreadful thing to say.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ve always loved life. I love eating, I love fucking. I’m all for movement, amazement. If you fancy sharing my pitiful existence, to shed some light on it, you’re most welcome.”
When Irène Fayolle would think about Gabriel Prudent, she would think: panache.
Irène told herself that she didn’t want to live in the conditional, but in the present. She put her turn signal on. She changed direction. She took the Luynes exit, drove past a shopping complex, and started driving very fast in the direction of Aix. Faster than the train timetables.
When she arrived in front of Aix station, she parked her van in a space reserved for staff. She ran to the platform. The train for Lyons had already left, but Gabriel hadn’t got on it. He was smoking in the “Au Depart” brasserie. Since it was forbidden, the waitress had said to him, twice, “Sir, we don’t allow smoking here.” He had replied, “I’m not acquainted with this ‘we.’”
When he saw her, he smiled and said:
“I’m going to go through your pockets, Irène Fayolle.”